


Out Of The Frying Pan (And Into The New World)

by I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies



Series: From Time To Time [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Earth C, Gen, Guardian revival AU, Mentions of Death, it's melodramatic complaining for the most part but be aware it's in there, karkat makes a few jokes about suicide heads up, plenty of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies/pseuds/I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, and you didn't think you would ever wake up again once you bled out at the feet of the Batterwitch. Think again, dunkass.





	Out Of The Frying Pan (And Into The New World)

**Author's Note:**

> Reading Messages In Bottles isn't necessary for this fic, but it will explain Dirk's somewhat OOC behavior better! And it is referenced briefly, though it's just a passing comment.

Your very first conscious thought is _I'm dying_ _again_. Your next thought corrects that to _I'm still dying_ , because chances are you just passed out for a second from blood loss or trauma or who knows what the fuck else at this point, and you're still actually in the process of it. Your chest still hurts like hell, even if you can't quite feel the pressure of your sword still inside of it. Can't feel cold steel in deep parts of you that were never meant to be touched by anything external, can't feel it in your heart. Your heart, which is beating hard, beating fast, probably going to jump out of your chest to do a tap dance on your corpse.

Except corpses don't have heartbeats. And soon-to-be corpses like you don't have heartbeats like _this_.

You snap your eyes open with a stuttering, heaving gasp, and struggle to sit. Halfway upright, your brain comes back online enough for you to flinch and grimace with the expectation of new pain. Your sword had been lodged in the concrete, straight through your body. You probably just- just tore yourself open even worse, just shaved off a few more precious seconds of your life, except-

Except instead of worsening, the pain is fading. Rapidly. You clutch at your shirt, right over your sternum, and look down with wild eyes to find that there's no red painting the white fabric. No glinting metal driven through you in a place that there's no coming back from. Just your trembling hand pressed over your heart, searching for an injury that isn't there.

"What the _fuck_." You breathe out, so fast that it all blends into one word. Your voice is hoarse, and you can't tell if it's from panic or because you can just vaguely sense the fact that you should be about five thousand four hundred and thirty-four years old right about now.

That makes you repeat yourself, a little bit louder and a little bit more forcefully as you look up to take stock of your surroundings. You are...on a hill. On a grassy hill, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a- a park, or a field, or a meadow, or _something_. You don't know, and it doesn't matter. All you can think of now, very suddenly, is that you should _not_ be out in the open like this. You're so vulnerable here, even one drone could probably pick you off.

In an instant, you're reaching for your sword. Reaching for the very weapon that killed you in the end, so very ironic, and it doesn't come out of your strife deck. That makes you panic worse, until your head whips around a few times and you find it laying in the grass next to you fully intact and bearing no traces of your blood.

No time to question it, you decide, and snatch it up like your life depends on it. It might. It has. It probably does; you're probably going to be using it to save it any minute now. At least it's still sturdy in your hand. Feels just as old as you do now, but it's somehow in just as good condition as it was before your fight with the Batterwitch. Good enough for whatever the hell you'll be dealing with, hopefully.

Standing isn't any easier than sitting was, when you try it. Your legs shake like a baby deer's and you nearly go tumbling down the hill before you stumble a few feet and manage to catch yourself. The pain has completely vanished from your body by now, but you're still feeling the adrenaline from it. It's energy that helps you stay upright, helps you flash-step to the cluster of trees nearby. Not fantastic cover, much too flammable for your tastes, but it'll have to do.

There's a paved path winding around the forest. Or, mini forest. It's not that big, not that it matters. What matters is that the pavement is in surprisingly pristine condition, and it probably leads back towards the buildings you got a glimpse of on your way across the field. Buildings that'll be better cover, with any luck.

You follow the path from your place under the trees' canopy for a good hundred meters or so, until it starts veering away into open territory again. You come to a halt at the edge of the tree-line and take a look at the sky. No battleships or drones in sight, but that doesn't guarantee that there aren't any. You don't have the guarantee of anything right now.

"DAVE, GET BACK HERE, I SWEAR TO GOG!"

You nearly jump out of your skin, and your heart slams inside of your chest as you draw your sword up in preparation for a fight. Who the fuck is shouting your name like that? Do they have a death wish? Are they _trying_ to get noticed? Where are- oh.

There, ahead and to your left. The stragglers from another copse of trees was blocking your view, but now you see what's going on. A kid, or maybe a young adult, who knows (you know, you can tell in a heartbeat that he's still a kid), is running with a carefree grin on his face, red cape fluttering behind him. There are a pair of painfully familiar shades on his face and they don't hide his amusement at all as he looks over his shoulder at whoever is chasing him. At-

 _Shit_.

A troll. It's a troll. You can recognize those kinds of horns anywhere, even if this one's are nubby and small compared to that _witch_. It (he?) is chasing 'Dave' with a glare and his teeth bared, the white all the more stark when surrounded by his grey skin.

The apparent lack of fear from Little Dave takes second place to the visceral panic that grips you. You aren't even fully aware of the distance you cross when you flash-step towards them. A blink, and then you're on top of the troll, and he's on the ground with a howled curse that gets muffled out when your hand wraps around his throat. He's gripping your arm tight, sharp claws digging in through your sleeve 'til you're sure you'll bleed, but it ain't shit. Ain't enough to make you let go, ain't enough to stop you from drawing your sword up in preparation to gut him.

His eyes go wide with panic, probably, and he makes a strangled sound that could be your name, could be a whimper, doesn't matter. You can't think of that, can't really think at all. All you know is you gotta put this thing down fast, grab the kid, get the hell out of dodge and hope you aren't tracked. Hope you-

Something slams into your back hard. Hard enough that you actually forget how to breathe for a minute. Hard enough that you go flying off the troll, almost drop your sword from the impact alone. By the time your fighting instincts kick in and you readjust your grip on it to swing over your shoulder, you're face down on the ground and a _strong_ hand gets ahold of your wrist. It twist your arm behind your back hard, and you spit a soundless curse over the sharp ache as you drop your weapon. Something digs in just above your hips - a knee, you would guess - and whoever your attacker is uses their free hand to grab the back of your hair and keep your face ground into the dirt.

Ironic that your lungs unlock so you can breathe just now. Just when you're probably a second away from dying again. Doesn't stop you from sucking in air and making a half-assed attempt at pushing yourself up, though all that does is make the person on top of you press at your arm until it threatens to snap.

"Holy _shit_ , Dirk." The voice is yours, a few pitches higher and definitely not coming from your mouth. But any comment you might have had about it goes right out the window with that one name.

" _Dirk_." You choke out, still a little breathless. That doesn't disguise the note of desperation (or is it hope?) in your tone that's so clear, _you_ can hear it. You finally go limp under the person on top of you and try to get a look around instead, even if that makes your hair twist painfully around their fingers. Thankfully they let go of it, and you crane your neck to see who's pinned you.

You know it's him instantly.

You recognize him in his platinum blond hair, just a few shades of gold off from being as white as yours. In his shades - those stupid triangular anime shades that you bought for him as a joke, as an ironic gesture, but he wears them perfectly. You can see yourself in the cut of his jaw, just a little, and you don't even care about how much your shoulder hurts as you strain to look at more of him.

"Dirk." You say again, say his name with recognition and shock and relief. Dirk. It's Dirk. It has to be, it can't be anyone else, even if it doesn't make sense to you that he's _here_.

He's staring right back at you with a level of surprise that those shades of his can't hide. Lips parted and eyebrows up, almost exactly the way _you_ do it, holy _shit_. Holy shit, this is your kid.

"...Bro?" He asks, all bafflement and what you think is hope. You hope it's hope.

"In the flesh, lil' man."

He lets go of your arm as soon as you say that, thank _goodness_ , and slides off of you with a level of grace that would make a cat jealous. You scramble up onto your knees half as smoothly and barely spare a wince for the way your left arm burns at the joints.

Dirk is still crouched next to you by the time you're upright, just a couple feet to your side. Which is absolutely fantastic, because that makes it so much easier for you to drag him into a hug the moment you're balanced enough for one. Fold him against your chest and squeeze as tight as you dare. One arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders, bent so you can rest your hand on the back of his head.

He stiffens in your grasp for the first few seconds, and you immediately wonder if you fucked up. Does he hate this? Should you have asked first? You should have asked first, shouldn't you? You totally should have, you should let go before he freaks out. Before-

And that train of thought ends when Dirk throws his arms around you and squeezes so hard, you lose the ability to breathe for the third time today. This time you don't really care, just let out a shaky laugh and hold him a little tighter as you press your cheek against the top of his head.

"I got you, lil' man." You mumble, and the words make you grin so wide that you probably look like a dope. But it makes him hold you tighter, and he presses his face a little more firmly against your shoulder, so it doesn't matter.

...

Okay, so it matters just a little, but only 'cause your poor ribs are about to give out here in a second.

"Much as I wanna hug you for like, forever? You're kind of crushing me, kiddo." You pat the back of his head gently, and his arms instantly loosen around you. It's probably obvious that he was kind of hurting you, because you immediately take a deep breath when he does. It also reminds you to loosen your grip a little on him, too, though you don't drop it completely. You ain't about to do that until your kid is good and ready for it.

"Sorry," he mumbles. Sounds honestly apologetic too, and it just softens your grin into something more fond.

"Hey, don't worry about it. Ribs are for losers anyway, right?" You pat his head again and feel a thrill over it. Justified excitement? Possibly not, but fuck it. He's _your_ _kid_ , and you never thought you would get this chance. It's a damn shame that he's starting to pull away from you now, movements small and hesitant like he's not sure if he's allowed.

You let him go, of course. Don't want to be too overbearing, not when you just met, but you do keep a hand on his shoulder. A part of you needs to, just to be sure that he's really here, that this is really happening. At least that seems to be a mutual thing, 'cause he hasn't quite let go of your suit with one hand either.

It would be a beautiful moment, if it wasn't so abruptly (and loudly) interrupted.

"Forget that nook-sniffer's ribs! If anyone deserves a fucking apology here, it's me!"

You glance up from Dirk to find the troll you went after earlier standing close by, both arms crossed and glaring at you, though it comes across more sulky than furious. It doesn't help that he's halfway behind Dave- you- little you? Little you. Standing halfway behind him, obviously hiding, and you grimace.

"Fuck, yeah, sorry about that. That was like, supremely shitty of me, wasn't it? Sorry kiddo, won't happen again." You raise your free hand passively. He seems to regard you carefully for a few moments, squinting with a low sound in his throat that you can only really call a chirr. And then he huffs and nods, even if he doesn't move from his half guarded spot.

"Fine, whatever. I've been greet-stabbed before, no big deal."

Knowing what you do of trolls (you know basically nothing about trolls), that shouldn't surprise you. But it still makes your lips part and your eyebrows shoot up for a second, just like Dirk's did earlier, and then you're babbling.

"Holy shit, for real? Wait, I didn't actually stab you, did I? Fuck, I might have stabbed you, I am literally the worst. You alright, kid? Are you bleeding?"

"Oh my gog, do I actually sound like this?" Little you plants a hand directly over his shades as he bows his head, clearly Done with your existence as a whole, and you lose your train of thought as you refocus on him.

"Only half of the time." The troll reassures him (or teases, you can't tell with that tone), and reaches up to pat his head a couple times. That's enough for lil' you to look up and level him with a flat stare, completely deadpan.

"Et fucking tu, Brute?"

"Dave I literally have no idea what that means."

Dirk snorts a little behind you, air puffing out of his nose in a way that you're pretty sure means laughter, and you glance back to him. He's smiling fondly at lil' you and the troll, possibly rolling his eyes given the way his head moves in a subtle arc.

"'S it always like this?" You ask him lightly, if just for the sake of saying something. He refocuses on you instantly, near as you can tell, but his smile doesn't drop.

"As near as I can tell." He begins to stand at this point, and you rush a little to do the same. It's more instinct than conscious thought that reminds you to scoop up your sword on the way, though you do tuck it away in your strife deck immediately. No more near-stabbings today, no sir.

The troll is still eyeing you suspiciously, though, and you once again raise your hands in surrender.

"Hey, sword ain't coming out unless it has to, alright?" Wait, shit, that sounds like a threat. "I mean unless drones or shit show up. But then it's only pointed at those guys." Speaking of, actually, what the fuck is everyone still doing out in the open here? It reminds you to glance up at the sky again, though you do keep that movement as subtle as possible, mostly move your eyes instead of your head as you scan for aerial threats. There's a beat or two of silence after that where everyone just. Looks at you. And you blink a little when you notice it, glancing between them with a slowly lifting eyebrow. "I say something?"

"There aren't any drones, bro." Dirk is the one to break the silence, hand landing on your shoulder in a way that shouldn't be so reassuring from someone almost half your age. "The Batterwitch is torched."

You blink blankly a couple times behind your shades. That sentence just. Does not compute in your mind. Even though you knew the kids would probably have to face her, that they would have to _win_... You're faced with your lil' bro, and he's mature, definitely, but he's still obviously a _child_ , and there's no _way_ that a child could kill that monster.

"Technically, she was shish kabobed." Little you interjects helpfully, crossing his arms with a tiny amused twitch at the corner of his poker face that you can spot perfectly, because that's how you smile when you're keeping a straight face. Freaky, but thinking about that can happen later. When you aren't still trying to mentally process the fact that these kids succeeded where you and Rose utterly failed.

"Or she's sushi, or you could just say that she's dead without using asinine turns of phrase!" The troll seems to have forgotten his fear of you at this point, throwing his hands into the air as he steps farther out from behind lil' you. He looks royally irritated, but lil' you's taking it with an even bigger smile-but-not-actual-smile, rolling his head with his eyes like this sort of outburst is par for the course.

"Not physically possible, 'Kat. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, and Striders gotta string out sick beats and asinine turns of phrase every which way. It's just how we roll, man, it's-"

"OKAY, OKAY, JEGUS FUCK, I GET IT!" The troll (Kat? Cat? Is his name fucking _Cat???_ ) grabs a hood you hadn't actually noticed on the back of lil' you's outfit and yanks it over his head, jostling the kid's shades and efficiently cutting him off. His poker face is slipping into a more easy-going smile though, and it would be weird but oddly nice to see.

If you weren't still freaking the fuck out.

"Right." You monotone, and you definitely don't mind when all three of them abruptly look at you again. You drum the fingers of your right hand against your leg firmly and tuck your left hand into your pocket. Having your dominant hand tied up like that doesn't actually help mitigate this totally smooth mental breakdown you're having, shit. "Right, okay, I think I need like. A minute to get this straight. The Batterbitch is dead?"

"Yes." Dirk's answer is firm and immediate, so you don't doubt it. It's probably crazy that you already trust this kid 100%, but hey, what the fuck else are you supposed to do? Still, he does waver a touch after that, like he's got more to say.

You don't ask about that. Your mind is still in survival mode, and you've got to be sure of other things right now.

"And there aren't any drones."

"None. This Earth hasn't presented any threats nearing that caliber. I suspect a part of the reward for winning the Game is a world in which the victors are safe from external dangers." Dirk is still sounding very sure of himself, alright, and you _do_ believe him. But you're starting to feel like you're taking one big news slap in the face after another.

"The Game. 'The Game' as in SBURB, the Game." It doesn't even sound like a question to you, but your kid still nods in reply. You completely give up on the cool guy shtick at that point, because you really need to just run your hands through your hair and sit right the fuck down. Plant your ass on this patch of grass as you try to process all of this. "You won." Okay, that sounded stupid even to you. "I mean, no shit you won if that bitch is dead and we're here and everything. Holy fuck. Thank God..."

You rake your fingers through your hair again, scraping your nails against your scalp as you try to ground yourself. Twenty minutes ago (from your temporally fucked perspective) you were lying at the feet of that banshee, choking on your own blood and praying earnestly for one of the few times in your life that your kid would be okay. Dying alongside a world that was so riddled with danger, the concept of 'safety' to you was a dark attic in the dead of night with a sword and the hope that nothing knew where you were.

The phrase "mental whiplash" is a bit of a fucking understatement right now.

Dirk crouches down next to you again. He seems hesitant to touch you, like he isn't sure if it's alright for him to initiate contact. His arm slides around your shoulder with a ghost-light weight that only increases when you lean into it. He seems uncomfortable when you look back to him. Awkward, because this is an awkward situation. Dealing with someone you barely know having an existential crisis is awkward.

... _Fuck_ , your kid barely knows you.

"I'm good." It comes out of your mouth on automatic, and it would be convincing if you hadn't just sat down and gone radio silent for a full minute there. (Minute and fourteen seconds, shut up.) Dirk's precisely lifted eyebrow tells you more eloquently than any words could how little he believes you right now.

"If you're good, then I'm a fucking tooth pixie." Kat announces snarkily. He stomps over towards you and you definitely do not tense by even a fraction, nope, no sir. You keep perfectly still and Dirk does not need to tighten his arm a little around your shoulders when the troll sits down with a graceless _thud_ a few feet to your side.

"Do you mean-"

"Sure man, sparkliest gogdamn tooth pixie this side of New Can Town." Lil' you interrupts Dirk, waving his hand slightly as if to deter the correction to Kat's verbal slip. He sits down beside the troll, close enough for their arms to be brushing and hey, that's interesting to you, but it's also none of your damn business right now. Or later. Probably not at all, actually.

Actually, no, some factor of this is your business.

"Okay, so why exactly is there a mini-me, again?" You squint behind your shades at him, and you can only assume that he's doing it right back. Ben-Stiller-authenticated-shades-to-shades standoff right here. It's really fucking stupid, but you aren't gonna be the one to look away first.

"That's a way longer story, bro." Dirk's arm withdraws from your shoulders then. You would regret it more if he didn't immediately sit right beside you, so _his_ arm is still brushing yours. It's enough to make you go right back on your word and look away from lil' you to him again. That petty shit can wait until after you finish making up for all the years of attention you couldn't give your kid before.

"I've got time." You shrug, and this time you do mean what you say. There are no more movies to make and no fish aliens to fry, apparently. No war to fight, just you on this world that you still haven't wrapped your head around and a long-ass game of catch-up to play.

"I'm going to throw myself off a fucking cliff if you start with the time puns again." Kat's loud sigh is laced with a growl. He crosses his arms huffily and almost looks like he's sulking behind that glare. Lil' you's smile is obviously still a little restrained, but hell if you can't pick up on the fondness in it as he casually slings an arm around the troll's shoulders.

"Duly noted. If I gotta commit third-degree murder at some point, that shit's under lock.

"Fuck you, I never said it would be a lethal fall! Maybe it's a stupid tiny cliff for wrigglers! Maybe I'll hop off and all I'll get is a twisted nub, like some kind of fucked up consolation prize for failing so spectacularly to do the most basic act of self destruction avai-lmbpffth-"

The rant ends with lil' you's hand pressed over Kat's mouth, his face falling into a perfect deadpan that doesn't break even when his fingers obviously get licked. You tense a fraction when you see a glimpse of sharp white teeth, but they graze and prod harmlessly against the kid's hand as if it's made of thick rubber.

"Okay, cool. So with the regularly-scheduled shit-fit outta the way, you good to keep your ass sat down and hear about the convoluted clusterfuck we had to deal with?" He lifts an eyebrow at you slightly, cool as a cucumber. Even though cucumbers are like, one of the least impressive vegetables. What the fuck is up with that? Whatever, at least you've forgotten that you're supposed to be freaking out right now.

"Sure man, my ass is planted squarely in the exposition zone." You almost literally bite your tongue to hold off on a nervous ramble branching off from there. No fewer than seven different pointless spiels run through your head, but honestly? If you have to sit through any more conversational derailings than necessary, you're gonna die of information blue balls.

"Cool. So," lil' you starts, and thank gog, he doesn't stop. You keep your mouth shut and let him run his, taking in a steady flow of information with the occasional nod to show that you're still listening.

Dirk or Karkat (apparently _that's_ the troll's name, go figure) jump in with added details throughout, occasionally just completely hijacking the narrative. Despite this, you're starting to get the picture. One game, three different sessions, two different species, and a whole hell of a lot of temporal shenanigans.

They explain what the Scratch is, and how it created two branches of the same universe. You hear about unlikely escapes from being erased by the effects, three years on meteors and ships. You learn more about what life was like for Dirk and Roxy, and you wish bitterly that you could have landed at least a few more hits on the Batterwitch for what they went through.

You get brief touches on doomed timelines and mentions of something called 'god-tier', though none of them seem that keen on giving you more than the bare minimum info about either. It all sounds unpleasant enough that you don't try to push for details, just let them glaze over it and carry on to wrapping things up. To summarizing a major four-pronged battle that ended in victory for them, and death for that damn space harpy.

It's a big, convoluted, fucked up story about a whole lot of kids going through a whole lot of shit, and you get the feeling you got the PG-rated version. There were too many small pauses, too many glances between them, too many slower and more carefully picked words trying not to tip you off to the fact that they've been through several kinds of hell. You wish they would just be honest with you, get everything out in the open, but you know it's hard to do that. Fuck, there are plenty of things about the revolution that you never told Dirk, back when you made recordings for him. It was to protect him, though. And these are kids - they shouldn't be protecting _you_ when you're the adult here.

"So there you go. SBURB 101 for dummies." Lil' you summarizes, palms up as he shrugs, as though to casually gesture at the world around you.

It's all still a whole hell of a lot to take in. Of course, you believe all of it, even if some of it might seem far-fetched. Your world was infiltrated by an alien hiding behind a baking empire for fuck's sake. Far-fetched isn't even a relevant term anymore.

"Right... Damn, that's- That was a lot of shit for you guys to go through." You sigh. Apparently that wasn't the expected response, though, because all three of them stare at you. You raise your free hand (you put your arm around Dirk's shoulders at some point in all of that, and you refuse to move it) defensively. "Okay, what's with the creepy coordinated staring this time?" 

"Nothing, man, it's just like..." Lil' you doesn't actually finish that sentence, but Dirk does. You definitely are not a tiny bit jealous that he's so on the same wavelength with his, uh, brother? Ecto-brother?

"I would have expected you to be more incredulous, is all."

You blink. The action is hidden by your shades. You shove them up onto your forehead and give another, more pointed blink to your kid. "Dirk, I got stabbed by alien fish Hitler pretending to be Betty Crocker. She had a fucking _dragon_. I think my suspension of disbelief is completely and utterly fucked at this point."

His eyebrows raise for a moment, though you're not sure which of those all admittedly very messed up sentences cause it. And then he smiles, restrained but warm in a way that makes you want to hug the shit out of him all over again.

"Then I suppose it won't be a complicated issue, explaining AR."

"AR?" You blink again.

"Yes, 'Auto Responder'. Apparently you can do incredible things with a ghost imprint of your brain and a week of intensive programming." You honestly cannot tell if he's joking with you right now, but you may as well go with it.

"Okay, back up. How and why the fuck did you get a ghost imprint of your brain?"

Dirk smiles again, and you settle in for what might be an elaborate joke, or might be just another batshit thing your kid has done.

Either way, you're just glad you have the chance to listen to him talk to you, sitting on this grassy hill in a world that makes just a little bit more sense.


End file.
